SPACE INVADERS

for SM

The docile turds that curl from under skirting boards

at night, then labour round the carpets and laminate

like ponderous, fecal figure skaters, are pernicious,

though they seem dumb. I catch them by the fridge,

investigating seals with probing stalk-eyes, hunting

weaknesses in pizza boxes left in slime's reach.
Aliens, that come from Mars to drain the juices

of your fruit and veg, may slither by your genitals

as you sleep. You will know they've been by morning,

when a semen slick is pooled around your thigh

Their vapour trails that start and end at nothing are a threat:

you never saw me coming and will never see me leave.

NUDES

When I surprised
a woman showering,
sorry towelling
her hair, I did not see
the full beaver
only its tail, say,
peeping through
her modest fingers,
the coyness transfigured
to a nervous smile.


Here, before the mirror,
the shame returns
in rolls of hairy flesh
that falls and folds
about the hips and ankles
like a towel, dropped
in a communal shower
at a swimming pool, say,


his body, younger,
leaner, firmer,
turned to catch it,
caught instead 
my eyes, snagged
on the tip of his prick,
erect. Flushing red,
I swear, he lingered,
showering in my gaze,
before he lifted the towel
and hid it away.

SISTER

for MH

I was Meatloaf. Sindy watched

you stalk towards me in mum's heels, too high

to walk in. You were her,

hanging round that joint, I didn't know

anything about you sister. Dress me up

in mum's old frocks, take photos.

Dance the lyrics; deal cards, laugh,

Dark Lady paint black magic.

We knew the strut to Turn Back Time,

arse bumped for kicks. It was your first

CD album, mine was Texas.

I remember Christmases, top-to-toe;

Rocky Horror, Halloween, Child's Play.

The video woman was a car boot of death.

TURING

His beautiful theory was witchcraft; the mind

spun into wires and NAND gates, NOT gates refusing

the tentative feeling of NOR fibreoptics.

This was his dream; love's electricity mapped

on a circuit board. He wanted to love

like a machine could manipulate symbols.

His hands were the same as the hands they met;

in size, in shape. Fingers that interlaced,

shared hairs. The sweat on his brow and eyes.

Something furtive; he never lied,

but kept the secret cracking secret codes.

His 'proclivities' were 'known' among his peers.

He loved and was refused; society redacted

him from history and castrated him chemically,

gave him a record and blanked his achievement.

Broken, oestrogen fat breasts and humiliated;

he took Eve's apple from the wicked queen,
leaving love's splayed cables puthering sparks.

http://epetitions.direct.gov.uk/petitions/23526 please sign

HUDSON UP TREND

I knew the Paris lines before they melted

onto models on the catwalk; furs, feathers,

leathers, synthetics, moulded round the tit

and cock. Models walking to me like a cocked

pistol. I was doing sketches of the patterns,

looking for codes on the front row; Anna Wintour

knew the crack, VOGUE! Her Chihuahua 

was a bitch in Louis Vuitton, always biting!

Somewhere among the waiting staff, a spy,

a glass of champagne and cyanide.

I report back on the future of fashion;

buttoned to the left, trousers worn knee-high,

sartorial semaphore, scuffed shoes.

HUDSON DINES ALONE

A luncheon alone. A secret code

of crossed forks and knives, napkins

folded half lengthwise and doubled

back on themselves. Somewhere,

among the waiting staff, a spy

with a plastic gun, bullets hidden

in the cistern. Death on every plate.

The punters suckling meat from bone,

oblivious. I am far from home. Snow

smokes up the windows in mid-June,

out of kilter from the sun.

I wear dark clothes, dine alone

incognito. I am Smith, Jakobsen,

Chavez, Jones. My overcoat steams

on the hooks of various fish joints.

A false identity, bait. Somwhere,

among the waiting staff, a spy,

the prey assigned to catch me

catching them. In the end a menu

whispers clues; Ungai, Saba, Tobiko,

a shiver of gold on green tea,

crossed forks, an unpaid bill.

ANTICIPATION

for DS and MH

A balloon trembles at the point

of bursting, champagne corks

unpopped, the bubbles dormant

waiting to be drunk, beer hides

unglugged in pumps unpulled,

unfilled glasses shivering in light

that spills through curtains,

undrawn, to lamps unplugged

and lights unswitched, a bar

unstaffed by men in bowties,

not yet clocked in to sweep

the floor of confettit that remains

unthrown in bags and hands 

that fidget unclapped in laps

of mouths that wait ungasped

for vows and questions still 

unasked, unanswered til an unworn

ring fits the unmarried finger

of a now married man, understand

then and only then they can